


Incarnations of London

by TheBookshelfDweller



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Contrast and complimentary natures, Extended Metaphor, Johnlock - Freeform, Love story in more than one way, M/M, One Shot, Tribute to London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBookshelfDweller/pseuds/TheBookshelfDweller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There once were two men who lived in a city called London. There once was a city called London that lived in two men." A one-shot about the way different aspects of London translate into John, Sherlock and their relationship, and a tribute to the amazing city which contributes so much to the magic of this show - it is a love story, in more than one way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incarnations of London

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, a great big thank you to people who bookmarked or left kudos on my previous story, it means the world to me :) Also, thank you to any one who just read the story, hopefully you enjoyed!
> 
> Furthermore, this story is my tribute to London, an amazing city I had the pleasure of visiting, albeit only for a short period of time. I fully intend on going there again as soon as an opportunity arises. I had an urge to write this because I think that a great part of the appeal in "Sherlock" comes from the amazing scenery, and skills of the camera crew.
> 
> As for any warnings, this is a Johnlock story, but nothing really explicite. There are some vague references to drug use, but again, nothing too macabre.
> 
> A disclaimer is in order, so - disclaimed!
> 
> Enjoy your reading!

There once was a city that called itself London. It was a city so animated and effervescent, a study in contradictions, endless paradoxes of the most esteemed beauty and the harshest crudeness coexisting on historical ground. Tormented by the need to truly live, London devised a plan to make itself a body. However, due to its inborn dichotomy of character and temper, London could not take form as one man. So it became two men, instead.

One was London’s Daytime man. As layered and as complex as the city itself, this man was a manifold establishment with a deceivingly unexceptional appearance. It is not to say that he was in any way unimpressive, for he had an air of comfortable confidence surrounding him which inevitably left an impression, but with an ordinary name he seemed to be an ordinary man, seemingly understated, just as London seemed, to those who didn’t bother to cast a second glance, like just another city starring only a few noteworthy features.

And what a misconception that was, seeing as this man was the antonym of unexceptional. He was the London unexplored and undiscovered by all but those who took the time to look beyond first impressions. Most were just tourists, their eyes catching the few prominent monuments – his eyes and dignified stance, Big Ben and the London eye – and lingering slightly on the welcoming elements - the warm and loud pubs, his smile and laugh lines.

 Yet, for those who ventured further, discovering all the hidden treasures that lay below the obvious, a whole new world unfurled. His scarred skin, testimony of a past filled with turmoil and bloodshed, was hidden under present layers – a contemporary polish. He was the city’s turbulent history under new façades, so very presentable. In him London placed the battles fought, the battles lost and those that were won, all to serve as lessons, guidelines to avoid future pitfalls. He held the city’s temper, along with the knowledge of what destruction may come from it. He was discipline and routine necessary for survival.

As a tribute to its own imperial heritage, London saw it fit to make this man a soldier, paying tribute to the military ventures which brought it its glory. It could not resist but to send him abroad, only to bring him back and find him changed, in the very same way London itself was changed by every newcomer, every foreigner, each new age, each new war on foreign ground which somehow managed to influence the city, this way or that. Just like once tea was brought to London, in his hair the man delivered a sun more intense than any that ever shone over the city, a foreign light stolen from Middle-eastern planes. Just like tea, he returned exotic. He was now a novelty to grow accustomed to.

So London took it upon itself to reclaim his Daytime body, to transform it into the very symbol of itself, the way tea morphed over centuries to become synonym with the land in which the city resided. The rain clouds have caught in the man’s hair, imprinting their colour among the sunshine streaks, the ratio of shades equal to that of sunny and rainy days.  Nightmares made his eyes a darker shade of water, so much like the murky depths of the Thames that one might assume the river sacrificed a few drops just to colour them. His smell changed to that of petrichor in smoggy air, slowly banishing the scent of sand and dry clay.

London also saw it fit for this man to be a doctor, one to ease the ailments of the wounded, because London knew that its people mattered as much as the impressive skyline, seeing as without them it would be only an imposing heap of neatly stacked rubble. So it made the man a physician, to ensure it would be able to tend to its people in his Daytime form. The man healed their weary bodies the same way London healed their weary souls – with the feeling of home, safety and acceptance.

Moderately interesting at first and ever more intriguing with progression of time spent in his company, the man was all the city was in the daylight– calm and warm at times, moody and aloof at others, protean but constant in his ways. He was humorous and amicable, exciting if the occasion arose. He was the comforting familiarity of fish and chips. Sometimes, he was the rush-hour road rage. The city constructed him out of countless details and curiosities.

He was loved by many, but unconditionally only by one.

-

The other was, as could easily be deduced, the face of Night-time London. There was almost nothing about this man that could be considered amiable. Oh, he was captivating, without a doubt, much like London’s countless lights glimmering brilliantly in the witching hour, but he wasn’t the lights. Rather, he was the dangers lurking between two lampposts, in the dim contours of street corners, dark back alleys and umbra under overpass arches.

He was utterly uncensored, much like the city in its latest hours, when arms were pricked, punctured to allow anti-gravity matter into the heavy blood, as their owners spread chemically-induced wings to flee far away from park benches. It was the London where heaven was a few millilitres in a syringe and where gunshots were as steady as a healthy heartbeat, and equally customary. It was with great abandon and absolute indifference towards appearance or propriety that the city lived in those instances, much like this man with his remarks and dagger-tongue, for he was not one for pretences and embellishments of reality.

The danger, the high, the ecstasy, the frenzy, he was both addictive and an addict. Just like the city, he was addictive – those who came in contact him were irreversibly altered, and all that has once seemed adequate faded in comparison to the life in the micro-cosmos that was him. Just like the city, he was an addict, depending upon the constant commotion to keep him occupied, save him from boredom, an insomniac’s damnation.

His mind was as intricate as the underground network of the Tube, and just as frantic. The bustling roads and sidewalks, highways and train tracks, endless pathways of ceaseless happenings - he held the city’s perpetual movement, embodied in axons and synapses.

London made him a detective, one who solved mysteries by reading people and clues with the same ease with which others read traffic signs. Almost nothing remained hidden from him, just like nothing remained hidden from the city in the hours that were both late and early, as those roaming its streets used the darkness of the night to deposit in its cover all they wanted to hide from daylight’s inquisition.  Night-time London was aware of secrets held safely beneath layers of diversions and denial, and embedded the same knowledge in its human form.

The city built him up from lunar pallor, stark contrasts and sharp angles. His eyes were burning neon lights in dingy underpasses, phosphorescent and florid in their pervasive scrutiny. It gave him a voice so alluring that he could speak you into a reverie, a daunting phantasm full of spectral apparitions and ominous compulsions long denied. The cadence of his speech was like the billowing wind wallowing over rooftops and the deep murmur of pebbles whirling on the riverbed.

In him London amassed its macabre love for all things morbid - the fascination by all the creative fashions of terminating a life, the silent appreciation of technique and elusiveness of true masters of the murderous trade, for they have always given it its aura of obscurity.

However, do not be coaxed into believing that this man was a particularly malevolent one. He was simply intractable and disparate to most of what is considered socially acceptable, thus attaining a role of an outcast. A vagabond galvanized by his own mind, he was brilliant and fascinating in a dark way, much like the city’s nocturnal disposition. London made him extraordinary in a regard hard to appreciate, as is only right. He was intensity and polarity which could only be loved with careless disregard for ones safety, and not in moderation.

He was loved by a few and unconditionally only by one, the same one who was unconditionally loved only by him.

They loved each other the way one can only love oneself, for they were just disunited parts of one being. Their love was the sine qua non of London’s survival. They were co-dependency incarnated, for the city could only exist as an intact entity.

It was in moments when neither could prevail and dominance had to be shared, that these two men truly came together. With kisses and touches that formed eclipses, breaths mixing and overcoming each other the way pinking morning sky drowned out the stars, they admitted recognition of one another, recognition rooted in a shared origin and complementary essences. At dusk and at dawn, when Day and Night seeped into each other, two incarnations of London were repeatedly, inextricably woven together.

There once were two men who lived in a city called London. There once was a city called London that lived in two men.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there is that. I hope I did the characters and the beautiful city justice :)


End file.
